


Dancing in the Dark

by vysila



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>My take on Illya & Napoleon's first time</i><br/>Written December 2008 for muncle's Down the Chimney Affair story exchange on livejournal.<br/>ashley_pitt's prompts were:  first kiss, dinner, Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing in the Dark

_Napoleon, December 24, 1964_

"It's about time you showed up." 

My partner sounded as patient and agreeable as a wounded cougar. Even if I hadn't already guessed he would be cranky, that surly tone of voice would've been warning enough. 

"If you're completely through with contributing to the delinquency of a notary public, Mr. Venerdi would like your report." He spared a glance in my direction, lifting that mobile left eyebrow in a mute dare. "I hear you do a divine belly dance."

The overhead light was off - Gemma had confided earlier that Carlo was on one of his cost-cutting rampages again - and the small desk lamp made Illya's hair into a golden halo. Turned him into one of those glorious Russian icons, like the one we'd seen on display at the World's Fair last summer. So goddamned beautiful that my heart tried to seize up in my chest, an engine with an overly rich fuel mixture. 

I stuck my hands deep into my pockets and clenched hard, until the impulse to bury my fingers in that radiant hair and never let go passed. Not here. Not now. _Not yet._

It took a few seconds before I could trust my voice. Not long enough for him to notice my lapse in control, fortunately. "Actually, I'd like to correct that misperception."

He made a rude sound and kept on typing. "Which misperception would that be? That you're harboring nefarious intentions toward an innocent notary public, or that Mr. Venerdi expects a completed report in a timely fashion?"

Illya in full righteous indignation mode is too marvelous for words. I couldn't help but laugh. "Nefarious intentions? Have you been reading Victorian pornography again?"

In response, he paused long enough to offer a disgusted eye roll and long-suffering sigh. "Spare me your sophomoric wit, please." 

"No, no, you're mixing your adjectives again, my friend. The word you're looking for would be _sophisticated_. Do you need a refresher course from Berlitz?" I liberated a pencil from the desk tray and tapped the eraser end against his nose. That, at least, was safe enough. As was the teasing. "However, Ernestine was eager to get that Affidavit into the proper hands. She's now on a plane heading back to Red Bank, New Jersey." 

"For which the long-suffering Shirley Hagenheimer is doubtlessly grateful." Illya slapped the pencil away one-handedly, scoring a two-pointer straight into the wastebasket, and smirked. "You could take a lesson from Miss Pepper's devotion to duty."

I sat on the corner of the desk and nudged his shoulder with my elbow. And firmly reminded the rest of my body to behave. "I've got news for you, tovarisch. Carlo has gone home for the night. It's after 8."

Illya stopped typing long enough to rub his forehead and frown. "Mr. Venerdi's slack work ethic does not excuse us from our responsibilities. It's only early afternoon in New York, and Mr. Waverly does not recognize time zone differences."

"Mr. Waverly is still in Nairobi, which happens to be an hour ahead of Rome. He's probably ready to toddle off to bed himself."

Illya folded his arms across his chest and tried to look completely annoyed, but I could see his heart wasn't in it. "Toddle off to bed? Please credit me with some intelligence, Napoleon." A tiny hint of humor crept into his voice. "We both know Mr. Waverly does not sleep. Ever."

I dismissed his objection with a wave of my hand. "Malicious speculation. Anyway, I reported verbally to him on my way back from the airport. The paperwork can wait for a day or two."

"Does that directive originate from Mr. Waverly? Or you?" But he swiveled the chair around and put his back to the typewriter and the partially completed form it held. 

I put a hand on his arm and coaxed him to his feet. And tried very hard to stifle the jolt of anticipation that shot through me. Touching him has the same effect on me as touching my tongue to a not-quite-discharged battery. Completely electrifying. "The Man himself. In fact, we are the recipients of his unprecedented holiday spirit. We are officially on leave, partner mine. Just think, a week in Rome. All to ourselves."

Wasn't any point to cluttering up the good news with details of how I'd had to bargain for this bit of time off. There's luck and then there's luck.

"Holiday spirit?" He blinked, momentary confusion darkening his blue eyes to a cloudy gray. I've never noticed that in anybody else, the way Illya's eye color can change depending on mood or distraction. Then again, I've had many opportunities to observe Illya and his reactions. To just about everything. Except for the one reaction I was eager to provoke from him myself.

This reaction, though, was familiar, his inability to remember holidays. As westernized as he'd become, holidays were still a foreign concept. A Communist worker-bee to his core, free time doesn't even blip on his mental radar. I'm working on that, though. 

I kept my grip on his arm and tugged him toward the door, because the first rule of negotiation is - don't. Negotiate, that is. If I gave Illya a choice he'd be back at that typewriter in a flash, cranking out my report and making it up as he went. 

Besides, I like touching him. Took me long enough to get him gentled to my touch, and it's my nature to press every advantage I've got. "Christmas Eve? Ring any bells?"

"Ah, yes." He grinned faintly and glanced down at my hand on his arm. "You do know the Christian holiday is merely an adaptation of the Pagan--"

I tutted and held up a finger to silence him, and heroically resisted the temptation to touch it to his lips. "Unless you want to spend your week's leave in a Rome _carcere_ I'd suggest you stop right there."

The office door slid open noiselessly, exposing the darkened, silent corridor. Illya arched an eyebrow and carefully looked both ways, as if he were preparing to cross a busy street. "It appears there are no Romans to hear my comments and thus be offended."

I grinned, knowing lackadaisical contrariness when I heard it. "The walls may have ears, my friend." Which was true, of course. Every U.N.C.L.E. headquarters facility was thoroughly monitored, and doubtlessly some invisible technician was dutifully recording every word we said and cursing his or her bad luck at having drawn Christmas Eve shift.

"A week's leave?" he repeated thoughtfully, a distant, calculating expression in his eyes.

Like nature, I abhor a vacuum, especially when it gives my partner time to think about his options, so I rushed to fill it. "Have you ever had the traditional seven-fish Christmas Eve dinner? I know a great place where we can get the best meal in Rome." Dangling a good meal in front of Illya's nose is usually an irresistible lure.

After all, the old 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach' advice seemed to work for women. Didn't it?

I mustered my best drop-dead sexy voice and fluttered my eyelashes. "I might even be persuaded to demonstrate my belly dancing technique."

A brief twitch at the corners of his mouth threatened to turn into a real smile. "Please, spare me the gyrations. Elvis Presley you are not. And no, I've never had the traditional seven-fish Christmas Eve dinner."

His stomach rumbled on cue.

"Trust me, it's a pleasure not to be missed." I winked at him for good measure.

The wink must've triggered his bullshit sensors, because all of a sudden he sounded more skeptical than Mrs. Imhoff, the Section Two accounts payable clerk who reviews and occasionally approves our expense reports. "An open restaurant on Christmas Eve, in Rome? Napoleon, I smell something fishy."

"Not yet, you don't." I held up my right hand in a pledge of trustworthiness. "You say that like you don't believe me, my friend. Whatever happened to unconditional trust between partners?"

He folded his arms and adopted a familiar mulish expression, looking every bit as immovable as said mule. "I always trust you. Usually to be up to some sort of trickery."

"I’m crushed you’d believe me capable of such deviousness. I'm just trying to get our holiday off to a good start." He wasn't the only one who could sound affronted. "But if you'd rather chain yourself to the typewriter and go hungry than enjoy a fabulous meal and charming company--"

"Ah."

Oh how I hated that little 'ah' of his, the one that really means 'I know what you're up to now, and I don't like it much'.

"I should have known," he muttered. It's a wonder the hallway didn't ice over as a result of his glacial glare. "I suppose _she_ has a friend, too?"

It wasn't the annoyance in his voice that clogged the breath in my throat, but the clear disappointment in his eyes. _Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Dare I hope?_ A familiar ache kindled in my crotch and I managed to sip some air around the knot in my throat, enough to speak. "You don't consider _my_ company charming?"

"I'm very tired and hungry and I have a headache. And I am _not_ in the mood to be charming to your women, Christmas or not. If you are not going to help with the report, I will just return to the hotel and go to bed early. Enjoy your evening."

"Illya, Illya." I tsked, and hid a grin. "You can't do that."

"I beg your pardon?" Oh, he was definitely ticked off now, because he'd gone all Cambridge and formal on me. 

Ice over fire. So. Fucking. Irresistible. I dug nails into palms, took a deep breath and let it out through my nose, slowly.

"I, ah, checked us out of the hotel this afternoon. So you can't go back there."

"Na _po_ leon! And just where did you propose we sl--" I thought for a moment he might just take a swing at me, on principle, and prepared to dodge out of reach, but the tension drained from his muscles a second later. Instead he heaved another one of his patented sighs and grumbled, just loud enough for me to hear. " _Zver’ muzhik_."

So Illya thought I was a sex machine? Visions of proving it to him were more than a little distracting. "I think I'm flattered, tovarisch."

He practically snarled at me, sounding for all the world like a pissed-off tomcat. "It wasn't meant to be."

"Now, now. You're just grumpy because you're hungry. A good dinner will fix you right up." I smiled my best and brightest at him and took hold of his sleeve, even though I was pretty sure the danger of his bolting had passed. 

Indecision shivered through him, disappointment battling hunger. I saw resignation flicker briefly in his blue eyes and knew I'd won this round.

"Very well." He sighed heavily, adopting his favorite martyred expression. It was getting quite a workout on this trip, actually. "But only because it is Christmas Eve and probably difficult to find a decent meal tonight." 

I grinned and let him see the delight in my eyes. "You won't regret this."

He gave me another glare for good measure, just to let me know he wasn't going to tolerate any further shenanigans. "If I do, then you will too."

* * * * *

"Do you know the history of the seven-fish dinner, Illya, dear?" Aunt Aimée smiled at my partner as Aunt Lucia entered the room posterior-first to nudge open the door, then swiveled to present the platter of lobster linguine in a sweet pepper sauce.

My aunts. Nobody loves good food and drink more than they do, and it shows. They're both as round as Lucia's homemade dumplings.

I tried to hide my smile behind my wine glass, and wondered when, if ever, anyone had referred to my partner as 'Illya, dear'. Not even Mrs. Waverly had the temerity to do so. Aimée and Lucia had, however, scored bonus points by pronouncing his name correctly on the first try, and he seemed inclined to let their endearments pass.

"No, ma'am, I do not." His eyes in the candlelight glittered with a fervor I'd not seen since the last time he engineered an explosion. Good food, I'd learned, was about the closest thing Illya had to a religion. 

Well, and vodka from the homeland. Of course.

"Oh, it's such a lovely tradition, with each course representing one of the seven sacraments. Lucia, I can't believe we neglected to explain all this earlier!"

Lucia smiled as she served up the food. "It is not necessary to the enjoyment of the food." 

Like Illya, she is the quiet, thoughtful partner; Aimée is my mother's sister and like everyone else on that side of the family, sociable and talkative. Even after all these years, Lucia still is not comfortable with English, and since Illya's Italian is fragmented at best, we all chattered away in French, our common language. And Illya hadn't even commented once on our accents, not even on Lucia's distinctive Aimée-influenced Québécois over her native Italian. Which meant he really liked my aunts.

"This, the seventh course, represents the blessed state of matrimony, the great joy of loving and giving oneself over fully to another."

Illya paused with the fork halfway to his mouth and darted an indecipherable look toward me. He caught me staring at him, I admit it, but he looked so content, so relaxed, that I couldn't tear my eyes away. Carpe diem, as the saying goes, because he was probably going to tear my head off first chance he got.

"Oh my yes, let's see, the first course - that was the stuffed clams, represents baptism, and then the - oh, did the whitebait or the shrimp salad come next, Lucia? I don't suppose it matters one way or the other, although that shrimp and artichoke salad was quite delicious, my dear, you really have outdone yourself this time, you tried something new with that recipe, didn't you? Anyway, the second course is confirmation, and--"

"It is not necessary to the enjoyment of the food, Aimée," Lucia repeated, gently, with a subtle sideways nod of her head toward Illya, and Aimée took the hint, looking not in the least abashed.

"No, of course not. But when you explained the significance of this meal, and particularly this course, that first time you prepared it for me, it just seemed so marvelous and appropriate that. . . I just. . . oh, Napoléon, it is so _good_ to have you and your Illya here with us tonight. We were so thrilled when you called." 

Aimee stretched out an arm to either side, gathering my left, and Illya's right, hands into her own surprisingly large, strong hands, and squeezed. "We have heard so much about you, you see. Whenever Napoléon calls, it is Illya this and Illya that, and let me tell you what Illya did last week."

Illya patted his lips with his napkin and went very, very still. "Indeed. I had no idea Napoleon was such a chatterbox. You must tell me more."

God help me. I was doomed.

"Oh, dear, please don't be cross with poor dear Napoléon. It must be frightfully difficult for both of you, with the work you do and having to maintain appearances, especially living in New York with all those odd American prejudices. We have an apartment in New York, I'm sure you already knew that, because Napoléon is our favorite relative and we would so much like to be able to see him more often, but neither one of us finds it a very welcoming city, so we live here most of the time. Really, I simply do not know how you manage. But now that you know us and we know you, I hope you feel you can come to us as well."

Illya blinked and cocked his head to one side, that furrow between his brows deep as a canyon. Aimée frequently has that effect on people. "I, um, appreciate the offer."

"Oh, good. Now that that is settled, would you like me to play for you?"

"I would enjoy that very much," Illya said, sounding as gallant as any knight who'd wandered into the Twentieth Century. But he glared at me from under lowered brows. "Your nephew likes his little jokes, Aimée." He stressed the second syllable of her name properly. "I had no idea his _Aunt Amy_ ," he mimicked that flat Midwestern pronunciation I'd perfected years ago, "was in fact Aiméee BenoÎt, the concert pianist."

He had, of course, recognized her instantly from photographs. Turned out he owns two of her albums, and had seen her in concert once in Paris, on a layover between missions. Really, it was quite annoying. Had I known he was a classical music fan I might've introduced the Aunt Aimée connection a lot earlier.

"My dear boy!" Aimée's dark eyes opened wide in an almost perfect "o" of surprise. She flailed her talented hands in the air in earnest denial. "You mustn't blame Napoléon for that little deception. He only wants to protect us, so no one knows the connection. Surely you of all people understand that."

Dear Aimée. I couldn't love her more. It was the truth and there was no reason to hide it from Illya, whom I trusted with my life, my. . . yes, well, we'd see about that, wouldn't we? Keeping secrets, though, that was another truth, and I knew Illya wouldn't hold a grudge on that score. We all did what we had to do to protect those we love.

"Although I certainly do think, under the circumstances, that he would've let you in on the secret. Really, Napoléon, it isn't good to keep secrets in a partnership. Lucia and I learned that, oh, it must have been thirty years ago, at least, don't you think, Lucia, when I was attending the Conservatory in Montréal and I thought you had gone home to be with your family but really you were in Paris attending Le Cordon Bleu--"

"Ancient history, _mia tesoruccia_." Not even Illya could mistake the tenderness in Lucia's voice and face. The love. "Come, we all want to hear you play. And then later, there will be grappa and cannoli, and then bed."

If Illya reacted to the last bit, I didn't notice.

* * * * *

Rome spread out beyond the terrace balcony, a glittering jewel crowned by the great rotunda of Basilica di San Pietro, not two miles distant from where we stood, as the crow flies. Not that crows were flying. Even from this distance I could hear the roar of the crowd still jamming St. Peter's Square long after the Pope's address.

I'd finally persuaded Aimée and Lucia to get some rest, and now I held up the doorjamb with one shoulder and admired the exceptionally fine view. I don't mean the Rome skyline either. Illya had abandoned tie, shoulder holster and suit jacket, but either that was his gun bulging from a trouser pocket, or he was glad to see me. "Hey, partner. Just you 'n me now."

Illya didn't move from his perch at the railing, but did turn his head to show me his profile. "You are one manipulative bastard, you know that?"

"Thank you?" I wasn't sure he meant that in playful fashion, so I tilted my head sideways and squinted, but he didn't look any happier from that angle.

"Yet again, that was not meant as a compliment." Ah. Apparently the bulge was indeed his gun, more's the pity. 

"A simple invitation to enjoy the holidays with your aunts would have sufficed, Napoleon."

I grinned, because griping meant annoyance, not serious anger. Anyway, there was no way to prepare someone for the force of nature that was my aunts. They simply had to be experienced, like the Grand Canyon. "But where's the fun in that?" 

He turned away from me again, staring out at the Rome skyline. "I'm so glad one of us is having fun, then."

"You aren't having fun? Wasn't the meal everything I promised?"

"It was. Lucia is a marvelous cook. And Aimée--" he sighed wistfully. "The company is indeed exceptional." He tossed a scowl over his shoulder at me, and amended his statement. " _Mostly_ charming."

"Well, Lucia can be a little abrupt, kind of reminds me of someone else I know--"

"I meant you, Napoleon." That frosty tone was back, but a little smile teased at the corners of his mouth. "Your aunts are both perfectly delightful." He raised a warning finger. "You, however, are a _jerk_."

"You know, you have raised ingratitude to an art form. I conjure a week's vacation in Rome, luxury accommodations, delightful companions, and all you can do is complain?"

"Well, I could kill you--" 

Illya's big capable hands mimed wringing an invisible neck. I ran a finger around my suddenly too-tight collar and cleared my throat. 

"--but I'd hate to violate your aunts' hospitality."

Suddenly I felt as unsteady as if I balanced on a precipice. I cleared my throat, jettisoning the unfamiliar doubt that had collected there. "Lucky for me that we're staying the whole week, in that case. Gives you time to get over your little snit."

"You think?" 

There was a husky, strained hitch in his voice that I couldn't quite identify, and I was still trying to figure out what had put his shorts in a snarl when he turned to face me full on. Face a little flushed from wine and the unseasonable warmth, hair dampened into sticky little tendrils on a sweaty forehead, eyes bright and hot - ah, God, this face was straight out of my fantasies. The ones I conjured on lonely nights when my hand was my only companion. And sometimes even when it wasn't.

"You trust me with everything else, Napoleon. Why did you not trust me with _this_?" His expansive gesture could've meant anything from the mere existence of my aunts to, well, anything else. Until he spoke again. "Did you think I had to be _tricked_ into wanting you?"

Even if I'd known what to say to that, I couldn't squeeze any words past my heart trying to gallop its way out via my throat. My brain caught and stuttered on _he wants me_ like a scratched record. His level stare felt like a searchlight, illuminating my heart and exposing every secret hidden therein. 

"I thought--" He spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear him over the distant roar from St. Peter's. "No. I _hoped_ we were past the point of testing one another, of playing games. Of having to prove something to one another. Or win at the other's expense."

I think it was the longest speech I've ever heard him make, and damned if it didn't make me feel lower than a duck's heel. If only for a split second, because truthfully? I can no more stop playing games than I can stop breathing.

But I'd rather stop breathing than be the cause of that ache in his eyes.

"Illya. . . " I still wasn't quite sure what I was going to say, but figured if the mouth started moving the brain would catch up. Sooner or later. It always has before.

I took a step toward him before I realized I was moving. "What, ah, what tipped you off?"

"You need to ask, after the last three hours? What _have_ you been telling them?"

"Nothing." I thought better of such a flat denial and held up a finger. "Well, all right. I talk about you. A lot, I guess."

His expression said he didn't believe me. "You deliberately led them to believe that you and I are--"

I shrugged and edged toward him again. "I didn't know they were going to assume--"

"No, you just hoped they would."

Fair enough. I _had_ hoped Aimée would connect the dots and draw a few conclusions. Counted on it, truth to tell. "I do refer to you as my partner. That word may, ah, have a different meaning for them than I intended."

"Somehow I doubt that." A faint cat-that-ate-the-canary smirk simmered around his mouth. "The sacrament of matrimony? Come _on_ , Napoleon."

I conceded the point and took another step. "That was a little over the top, but I had nothing to do with it, honestly."

He began ticking points off on his fingers. "So, now I am expected to spend a week with you under your aunts' roof as your lover, sharing a single room, with a single bed?"

I grinned, sure of him now. "We can't disappoint the aunts, can we? And it's a double bed, not a single. Plenty of room for both of us. Lover."

That smirk broadened into a reckless grin. "Well, I suppose I've had to play worse roles." 

This time, when I took a step toward him, he took a step toward me, too, and then we didn't need words at all.

* * * * *

Illya's mouth is made for kissing. Hot and slick and sweet and I wasn't ever going to get my fill of it. I held on to him like I was drowning and he was my life preserver, and let him breathe for both of us through that endless first kiss. Surrendered to his greedy tongue and thanked every star in that Roman sky for the best damn Christmas present I'd ever received. Those hands that had threatened me moments ago now cupped my ass and yanked our crotches together, and he growled, so possessive a sound I thought my knees were going to buckle.

My hands fumbled at his waist, searching for the seam between shirt and trouser that would lead to bare skin and used my slight height advantage to deepen the angle of our kiss. I was on fire, the sweetest burn imaginable, and if it left only ashes in its wake I'd still count myself the luckiest man on the planet.

I don't remember moving from terrace to bedroom, lost in a lush, dark haze that fogged my senses, that blinded me to everything except the scent and taste and feel of Illya. But there we were on that broad bed, the cool rasp of brocade pillows against my back and Illya's heavy warmth draped over my front.

Somehow he'd burrowed past shirt and undershirt to find skin, the glide of callused fingertips across my belly and chest ticklish and shockingly perfect, so much better than I'd ever imagined. 

"Fool," he whispered, breath washing across my lips, nearly another kiss. "You should have told me."

I strained my neck up slightly and sank my teeth, ever so gently, into that lower lip that had fueled more than a few of my fantasies. Slowly drew it into my mouth, and let the next kiss take its own sweet time. 

"I didn't hear you say anything, either," I said, once we'd eased apart to catch our breath again and saw his lips curl in a smile, felt him shake with laughter.

"But I wasn't the one chasing every woman in sight."

God. I'd dreamed, fantasized about this for so long, but now I understood how the reality of his eager, welcoming body against mine was something I'd only thought I was ready for. I could barely haul in air past the drag coefficient of so much desire. "You. Have. No idea."

Illya shifted his weight up onto his elbows, straddled me and dipped his head, his unbuttoned shirt spreading out over us like protective wings. "Then show me."

I closed my eyes and shivered against the thrill that scalded through me at his words; license to do whatever I wanted. And I wanted so very, very much.

Like trouble, it didn't take me long to rise to the occasion. "Come here." I wrapped one arm around his shoulders, tangled the other hand in gossamer hair, and yanked him into a full-body embrace and another wet, searching kiss. 

There was a time when I could've described my body as a trained instrument of pleasure, but strategy and technique had nothing to do with what followed, only a blind, aching need I'd not felt since adolescence. 

I teased the shirt off his shoulders and tossed it aside. He didn't argue when I pressed him back against the mattress, but his eyes glinted in the darkness and when I kissed him again, I felt the curve of a smile on his lips. I rubbed my cheek against the smoothness of his inner arm, mapped the arc of collarbone with my mouth, and breathed in the muffled, ragged moans of his response. 

I think I could've stayed just like that all night, wrapped in his arms, content to surf the rise and fall of his chest with every breath, lulled to sleep by the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

I had it bad, all right.

Peaceful coexistence wasn't enough for him, though, and pretty soon it wasn't enough for me anymore, either. My shirt disappeared into the shadows beyond the bed, and through the roar of blood pounding in my ears I heard the clatter of cufflinks hitting the floor somewhere. When he licked his way down my breastbone I arched up in a shameless demand for more. Caught back a cry that might've awakened my aunts when he sucked at first one nipple, then the other. Tried to stop the tremble in my hands and gave it up as an impossible task.

I'd never been so hard in my entire life. Not even as a teenager with an excess of hormones and no one to spend them on. 

He wriggled and protested, but only in a half-hearted way, when the kisses I laid around his neck and chest turned into nibbles, and then, when every instinct I owned demanded that I mark him as mine, into full-blown sucking bites that drew blood to the surface. He'd need to wear turtlenecks for a while, to hide the evidence.

Unless, of course, he didn't mind openly wearing my brand of possession, a thought that stirred something primal from deep within me.

My throat was too tight for words when his hands migrated to my waist and fumbled with the belt, one strong thigh arching against my cock with perfect friction. I could only pant in short bursts like a dog in heat and stroke encouragingly down the long muscles of his back with my increasingly shaky hands.

He looked up from whisker-burning my navel and lifted one hand to shove sweat-damp hair off his forehead. His smile was that of a predator, all teeth and primitive agenda, not at all trustworthy. Especially not after my vampire imitation earlier.

"Napoleon?"

I drew in air through my nose and gave myself permission to think about what that smile might mean. "Yes."

Illya's smile widened, his voice silky and dangerous and more than a little ironic. "Is that an answer or a question?"

"Which does it need to be?"

Surprise flickered in his eyes and his hand traveled upwards to stroke my cheek with astonishing tenderness. Any defenses I had left evaporated in the wake of that affection, like I'd just crossed some sort of emotional equator. 

"Which do you want it to be, my friend?"

Christ, talk about impossible questions! I wanted it all, everything I'd ever imagined. How many times had I pumped my cock and fantasized I was deep inside him, or licked my own come off my fingers and pretended it was his dick I was sucking, his come I was tasting?

Trying to think past that savage thrum of longing was more futile than shoveling sand against the tide. All I could do was clutch him tighter, push my hips up helplessly against the knee still pressing against my crotch and sigh at the welcome friction.

Illya's a smart boy; he knows how to take hints. He yielded to my embrace just long enough to press a tickling kiss on the exposed skin between bellybutton and trouser waistband, and then shoved himself off the bed. Before I could mourn the loss of that exquisite pressure, my pants were unfastened and both trousers and shorts yanked off. 

His own pants followed a couple of seconds later and then I could admire the view all over again. Backlit by the light streaming in through the window, his profile was magnificent; powerful shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and a tight, curved butt that any woman would envy.

But what really made my mouth go dry and my cock jump was the clearly defined outline of a jutting erection.

Oh, yeah, this was more like it. "You. Come here." I barely recognized my own voice, so rough it damned near scratched my throat, sat up, and reached for him. Caught him by the hips with one hand and held him just where I wanted him, and curled my other hand around his cock.

God, _yes_. Spring-steel hardness encased in velvet skin, damp with sweat and thicker than I'd anticipated. I blew gently on the sensitive head and felt both cocks jerk - his and mine. He was trembling now, all over, hands clutched in my hair.

"My knees are giving out," he said suddenly, sounding halfway embarrassed.

"Mine, too," I admitted ruefully. "And I'm sitting down."

"Then we need to lie down," my practical Russian said, and matched action to words. He spread his legs and I settled in between them. Rolled my hips until our cocks nestled together, claimed his mouth and showed him how to belly dance, American style.

This wasn't anything I'd ever fantasized about, something this simple, this basic, but it felt unbearably sweet to stretch out full length against him, cock to cock and lip to lip. I would say heart to heart, but that's pretty corny, even for me. Even if it was true.

Our sweat eased the slide of hard flesh against hard flesh. I swept my tongue between Illya's teeth and dove deep, matching every push of my hips, swallowing every sweet, greedy little sound Illya made as he thrust up against me, blue eyes wide open and deep enough for me to drown in.

It didn't take long at all, maybe a dozen strokes, and then Illya arched up against me and groaned into my mouth like the world was coming to an end. Wet heat spread between us, and like that had been the signal I'd been waiting for, the world shattered around me, too.

* * * * *

"There are disadvantages to a single bed," Illya said sleepily about an eon later.

I snuggled deeper into his embrace and hoped he didn't stop stroking my back anytime soon. "I keep telling you, it's a double."

"All well and good, but if we had two single beds, at least we would have a fresh one to sleep in."

I cudgeled my exhausted brain for one last logical train of thought. Oh. "You're in the wet spot?"

"I am." He sounded too sleepy and sated and too utterly comfortable even to be annoyed. 

Contentment and gratitude welled up from deep inside me, but I scoffed and shifted over to my side, tugging him with me. "That's a small price to pay for the great pleasure of my company."

"Then _you_ get to sleep in the wet spot from now on." He settled behind me, chest to my back, his sticky, limp cock nudging my buttocks, and sighed gratefully. "That's better."

My heart stumbled. _From now on._ "At least we don't have to explain ourselves to my aunts in the morning."

"Very convenient, that."

I grinned into the darkness, and listened as his breathing slowed and evened out toward sleep. 

Everything had changed. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. 

Unknown as a coastline slowly emerging out of the morning mist, a new future waited for us to shape .

It was going to be beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of a two part story, intended to bridge two first season episodes, _The King of Knaves Affair_ and _The Terbuf Affair_. Part two remains unwritten thus far. Sorry!


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